The Madhouse

[Posted by Will]

I lived in a madhouse. Although unfortunately for me, there were no patted rooms or solitude. My madhouse I called home, in central New York where I was born and raised. My home was a madhouse for years although I didn’t know it right away. Having lived in it for eighteen years previously I must have been mad, gone mad to have not realized it.

My father was mean old bastard, a drunk and a loser. A lowly factory worker all his life and the really sad part was he wanted nothing more, strived for nothing more. He was pathetic. Doomed to work, get drunk, come home, drink some more and pass out, to only wake up and do it all again. On the weekends if he didn’t work over time he would sit in his beaten up old chair and watch rerun cowboy serials from his childhood of yesteryear. I guess when things were better, but for him they weren’t. His father abandoned him when he was five leaving him alone with two sisters and a lush of a mother. Maybe the cowboys made him feel young again. Who knows, there is no point in trying to understand him anymore.

He sat on his throne at home and cried poverty at night. Every night he would get so shitfaced he turned every night into a pity party and the world was invited. It was always time to feel sorry for old Joe Kaminski. It made me wish he was sober, but when he didn’t drink he was mean and miserable, so miserable I wished he were drunk. He was just so mean spirited and hateful he was hardly ever easy to tolerate. He did however turn into an all right sort but it wouldn’t last. It exists in his drunken delirium somewhere between miserable and depressed. If he has two few he becomes angry and combative, hating everything in the world around him. If he has two many the pity party begins. If I only knew how many it took to just make him all right.

He and I never spoke much, rarely, sometimes not at all. He and I could go sometimes days to over a week without saying so much as a word to the other and we lived under the same roof, in the same madhouse. He never cared for me much, but the feeling was mutual. He blamed me for all his problems. I was the cause of his bills. I took too much of his wife’s, my mothers, love away. I was never into sports so I guess he was never into me. There was never father and son time or any bonding in my formative years. I guess when it comes down to it; neither of us could very much stand the other. Maybe he was jealous that I could leave the madhouse. I could see the world. That I could go out and live my life and he couldn’t because he didn’t really have one. Which would honestly explain a lot.

He was content in his misery though, or rather he never did anything to change his station in life. My father was the sort however that would be so miserable he had to drag the rest of us down with him. My mother and I, that is. We had to be as sad and miserable and depressed as he. I guess it made him happy. The only happiness he had, I suppose. He was the master of the madhouse, its creator and in the end it’s what destroyed him. My mother was a peacekeeper but she was mad. She chose to stay and live in the madhouse with him and I. To me no sane individual would be willing to live and subject themselves to that madhouse everyday for over thirty years as she had. Therefore she clearly was mad herself. Driven that way by a drunken unappreciative husband. She was brought down by it all, wearing her down and making her mad.

My folks were old, having had had me late in years. Growing up they were always vastly older than the parents of my friends in school. They rarely went out, leaving the madhouse. It explains a lot of my nature. I am a relaxed sort. I was never a rambunctious child. I never ran around a lot or went outside to play. Those things seemed foreign to me. I’d rather much spend my time in my room reading or writing, getting swept away from the madhouse. Dreaming of being elsewhere, anywhere in fact, than there. I was bound and determined to leave the madhouse one day and so I did just that. When I turned eighteen I went to college out of state. I spent two years living in Pennsylvania going to a liberal arts college, studying theater. Then I left the Podunk farming community for something bigger, more grandiose. I went to Florida and went to school down there and received my Bachelors of Science in Film after two years of study.

I had a lot of great times in college, those were my best years but unfortunately like all good things it would seem, they must come to an end. After graduating and having absolutely no job prospects I had nowhere else to go but home, back to the madhouse and I must be mad too if I willingly went back there. But I had nothing else to do and nowhere to go, what else was I to do, but return to the madhouse. I was defeated by life. Directionless, jobless and hopeless, is what I was. I escaped the madhouse only to go right back to it. I feared it was where I would have to stay forever. I had nothing at home, no bills, but college bills. No rent, but no privacy. I had a girl but she’s a state away and when you’re in love you know that’s another lifetime away.

I was trapped in the madhouse, doomed to stay. I was right back where I started and my skies were turning grey. There is no light at the end of my tunnel, no end in sight. I wish I could end my madness, end my plight. Life is an internal struggle, a personal fight. Man against man I will fight myself and find a way out of the madhouse again. My parents are with me, trapped in the madhouse but content with staying in. They are content with their madness, their life, their madhouse, but not me. I’ll fight my way out the madhouse again, you’ll see. My girlfriend calls me and asks me how I am. I told her I live in a madhouse, you see, but nobody here knows it but me. I laugh through the tears and tell her, it’s going to be all okay because we’ll be reunited, together again someday.

The walls are closing in and the light is going dim. Today ends and tomorrow will be a new. A new hope for a new day. One day I’ll escape the madhouse and be a new man, my own man. But for now I’ll go to sleep and dream of being swept away, far away from the madhouse. It got me once, then it got me again, but there won’t be a next time. No sir, never again.

On a Cold Winter's Night

[Posted by Will]

Here I sing of tales of old,
Where my story must be told.
Of when I lived on the country side,
An’ there it was I lost my bride.
…On a cold winter’s night…

It but started years ago,
Where my Bride an’ I were eight years old,
When she moved to the country side
An’ my love for her ‘came three miles wide,
I remember… On a cold winter’s night…

I loved her so,
An’ we were wed but thirty years ago.
I love her still even though I lost her,
An’ no comfort numbs the pain I foster.
I remember, still… On a cold winter’s night…

The hour was late when she fell ill, thirty years ago.
Winter came, the snow had fell an’ the doctor dare not go.
I lost my Bride, my love that night so many years ago.
I buried her out in the snow that night so many years ago.
‘Twas a night like tonight… a cold winter’s night…

Now, I lie here broken hearted,
Of the loss of my dear departed
An’ now the hour is late I fear,
For my times end is near for my dear Bride is here,
To take me home tonight… On a cold winter’s night…

The Story of He

[Posted by Will]

He longed for New York, for home. He was drifting along in a sea of uncertainty. His future, unknown. His present was murky at best and he lived day to day, one day at a time. He had become comfortably numb by it all, brought down. The heavy weight of life took it’s toll on him, aged him horribly. Four years had gone by and it felt like forty. He had no idea what was next for him but he embraced it fully, head on and let it envelop him whole.

He once had hopes and dreams just as much as the next person. Like the next sucker, he thought. He was a bitter and broken man. He loved, lost and lucked out. He was drowning in the bottle of booze that became his life. He wrote little, fucked little, did little, was little. He had little to show for his life, his accomplishments had become few and far between. He had went to college to learn answers and only left with questions and a piece of paper that was his diploma. He had no idea what he wanted to be, but he wanted that person to be somebody.

Disillusioned by fame and glory became his life story. He was sorry he never hoped to achieve more. Fear and shame kept his talents hidden and his mouth shut. His heart was battle scarred, buried deep within his chest, guarded and fenced off far from the world to see the tears it shed. His soul shattered, scattered, tattered, torn to pieces. He was lost within himself, trapped and had no way out.

Most would say he was his own worst enemy and worst critic. How could anyone love this poor hapless hopeless man, when he didn’t even love himself? He was surrounded by people daily, swimming in a sea of urchins and yet he never felt more alone in his life. He traversed the many pathways that life had to offer up to him and each time he ended up on the road to going nowhere fast. He would sit alone a lot and drink himself to sleep. Each night thinking how did this become my life? Each night dreaming of something better, of hope, of home.

If he could go back and do it all again he’d say, he’d do it all the same. He was dooming himself to repeat the same mistakes, the same failures that led him to this point. He was happy with the same, mundane. He learned a little each time but asked for the same result in return. He was a glutton for punishment, a metaphorical sadomasochist. In the end all he had was himself and who better to punish than yourself, than having to deal with yourself?

Sure he had friends but for some reason they were never enough. Nothing could compare to the love of a good woman he thought. He seemed to look for love in all the wrong places and loved too often, too quickly, at the drop of a hat. He wore his heart on his sleeve, ready, willing and determined to give it away with every single handshake. But it was never enough, he was never enough and he never knew why.

He felt like he was a ghost. He was disappearing from the world. As each day passed he felt as if he were disappearing. He could stand in front of the mirror for hours and stare, just stare deep into his own eyes. Looking at himself, trying to see the real him but looking back at him was a stranger. He no longer recognized the man he had become. His world was in shambles and he became a cipher in it.

He wanted, tried but felt like he failed at every turn. He just wanted to make it all go away, all his pain, all his suffering and so he drank, he reached for bottle after bottle and numbed his pain. It was bliss but it was fleeting. He just wanted to hit a reset button and try again elsewhere. He lived in a few different states over the past four years but they still felt the same. He was trapped in a world of shit and he needed to get out. He longed for New York, for home, back when the world made sense.

He knew for so long what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. But unfortunately something happens when we age, we get wiser. Our hopes and dreams seem to fade quickly with time because we settle into the fact that we will never achieve those far-fetched infantile dreams. We become realists. He wasn’t always a negative person but when a person actually lives life they change their perspective quickly. No longer did the world feel in front of him, it was ahead of him, but it left him behind.

Change is a harsh mistress, it happens whether we want it or not and it’s a real bitch most times. He was disgruntled by the fact that the world was changing, people were changing. He was changing. He turned to film originally for immortality, to be remembered forever, long after he was gone. He went to film school to discover his art and his many multitudes of hidden talents only to learn film had changed without him. It was no longer about story, art or substance. He grew up with this mentality from watching the greats that were the products of film schools of the seventies. He lived in that world, in the world he was in however, film belonged to studios, and it belonged to studio executives that were without imagination. The auteur dream was dead, friends. His dreams were dead. Art died, and all that remained was business.

Disillusioned by it all he graduated broken hearted, cursed with a diploma he’d do nothing with. He learned something from his disillusionment though; he learned there was something left in the world, words. A school tried to rob him of his imagination, showing and never telling. However there was something they couldn’t do. The products of the institution were uninspired by words, no emphasis on them at all, soulless. With that realization he realized even though they took everything from him there was something they could never take from him, his words. It was all he had left but damn it, those words would always be his, even if he had to take them to his grave.

The power of words will always have more imagination and provoke more thought then anything that can be seen. There was more interpretation to them. Words spoke to him daily. Suddenly the culmination of all his schooling became clear. There was a glimmer of hope amongst all the sadness. He still had one love in his life left, words. Film could always still have it’s meaning, just like any first love. It will always be there, but it means something different now. You never forget your first love. First love is bittersweet, it is fleeting, but its memory is engraved in you forever. However, he was with his new love now, hoping it would last a lifetime. Time will tell.

Words though don’t come easy. They are not without emotion. They are not without inspiration. Words don’t come easy even though they are always there. A writer is an artist whose hands are the brushes and he paints pictures with ink, in black and white. Anyone can craft a sentence but it takes an artist to string the words together and create something that transcends the words on a page, the letters that create those words. To go beyond meaning. Anyone can speak, but speaking words uninspired mean nothing. It’s what the words stand for. An idiot can speak, but an artist can create meaning with his, no matter how many or how long or little and sometimes by saying nothing at all.

He longed for home, for New York. He knew when his time was coming. He knew when it was time to pack his bags and go home. He longed so badly for years and now it was his time. He was headed home, finally after so long, he could rest. He could go back to the beginning where it all made sense. He could go home. He missed it for far too long, he missed the falls and the colored trees; the very scent in the air lifted his soul. He missed the campfires and the contemplation that went with it as he would stare into the dancing flames and search his soul for deeper meaning and he knew it would be there he would find it, at home.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he wrote this, dreaming of home. The story of he; the artist’s struggle was not etched in black and white. There is more meaning if you know where to look between the lines, you’ll find it there and that is where you’ll find him someday. He’ll be there for an eternity. Long after he’s gone, long after the aimless wandering and meandering through this dismal, abysmal thing we call our lives. He found his immortality finally, past the uncertainty of life. He isn’t sad when he weeps now; he’s found a new happiness, a new life, a new love, a new meaning. Please don’t be sad for him, he’ll be at ease, at peace. He was longing for home no longer, he was finally going there soon, and he was on his way. He was finally headed home. This is the story of he. He was the story of an artist; he was the story of me.

Salesgirls

[Posted by Will]

I hate salespeople. People in sales constantly bothering you, looking to find new and creative ways to make you say yes. I wonder if they hate themselves as much as other people do? I would hate to live that way, going day to day constantly trying to screw over good, decent, hardworking people out of their hard earned dollars just to peddle my wears and make a sale. I don’t think there is any other group of people I hate more than these who call themselves in sales. Well I can think of one, salesgirls. They’re different…

Now, I don’t hate the fairer sex, although far more often than not are they ever that fair. And no I’m not sexist. I don’t hate them specifically because I think they are stealing their sales job from a man or that they are inferior to men at their job, just the opposite in fact. I hate them because they are just so damn good at it, too good. I hate salesgirls because they make life too hard and they're even harder to say no to, that’s why I hate them. Just by looking at them, they immediately make you want to say, yes and that was exactly the case one Saturday morning.

I was in my apartment in Florida, sitting on my couch, in my pajamas watching rerun television shows. I hadn’t even eaten my breakfast yet, when they came, followed by a knock at my door at eleven that morning. Who the fuck was bothering me before noon? I thought to myself. I got up and peered out the peek hole in my door and that’s when I saw them, angels. More like she-wolves in sheep’s clothing… but they were visions and of course their attire was provocative as most of the fairer sexes attire is. Which to me again begs the question, are they really ever that fair? I’m sure the wardrobe was intentional, as it almost always is. I’ve often wondered if girls, women even, knew of their power of provocation over men.

Just by the way that they dress can cause a man’s mind start to wander. A man’s imagination is a powerful tool and a terrible curse. Now, attire changes as it spans time, fads fade. However, there is one thing that never changes, provocation. Although, perhaps it isn’t always the clothing they wear that’s provocative, maybe it’s a man’s mind that remains never changing? I know one thing at least and that’s that a man’s mind never fails at being overactive. A man’s mind can and will wander and imagine; dream about, a woman’s body. Sometimes even if he wants to or not, regardless…

Times have changed drastically in which girls today, much like the girls on my doorstep, dress extremely provocatively, they wear less clothing and show more skin. More often than not it leaves little to a man’s imagination, it’s sad to think about really, the death of imagination… but I suppose that is my lot for being born in such an unfortunate time. Men a hundred or so years ago wanted, wished for girls, women, to wear less, more provocative clothes. In just the mere hopes of catching an accidental glimpse of a woman’s ankle or a bit of collar bone as they dreamt of seeing cleavage if not a bountiful bosom. Now with the way that they dress, cleavage is every where you go, you notice the tightness of the jeans they wear and the cracks of their ass as they bend over in their apple bottom jeans, sometimes exposing some form of underwear although that too has even become a dwindling expectation. With them revealing so much, too much, a man today has nothing left to dream about. I bet if you looked in the dictionary you’d find that under the definition of irony. Men a hundred years ago or so would truly be jealous of men living today. They saw less and dreamt more, we see more and dream less… the grass is always greener I guess…

I think that one could argue that all women are in sales, with the way that that they dress to impress for success. All women are in sales, they all want something and they know exactly how to get it. Just by showing some skin can cause even the most stone cold, harden man’s heart to melt and when he does he’s theirs and when he is, the world is their oyster. It’s funny isn’t in? How all it takes is one clam to make the world her oyster… We were born men after all and after all we were born to lose… that’s life.

Perhaps girls; women, dress that way thinking they’re doing men a service by showing it all off? Now, believe me I have no real complaint with seeing a little extra skin. Maybe, just maybe they are doing the men in this dreary world a little service… with a little extra skin, with the clothing being a little extra tight, with a little less clothing, with every jump, jaunt, jiggle, wiggle… can make a man’s heart skip a beat, we’re entranced by them. We seem to become mindless, spineless drones because of them.

As I maintained earlier a man’s imagination is a powerful tool and when we gander as we have been known to do, our mind’s eye imagines a woman’s body far greater, far better and far more glorious than it could possibly ever be. So perhaps women dress the way they do as a form of truth telling. Like saying, “Gaze upon them, my features. See me. What you see is what you get!” Now, I’m not saying that women don’t cheat their features with illusions or trickery with inventions like the padded bra or the push up to accent their breasts as larger than they are and men stare. We should however, remove our rose-colored glasses when we see them exit stores like Victoria’s Secret. Speaking of which, Victoria’s Secret? Objects may be smaller than they appear… secret uncovered.

Women seem to have a plethora of tricks in their bags when it comes to putting their breasts out on display. Is that why they are sometimes referred to as racks? Girls; women like the two on my door often put their best feature forward, in this instance, their heaving breasts, leaving them out for display like two big circular pies fresh out of the oven and left out to cool on a window sill. Putting them out there was a like a signal to all men, they were fresh, they were hot and they were ready, ready to be devoured by the world. The dinner bell was ringing and they were signaling, sending a sirens call out to all men, to come and get it. The dinner bell’s a-ringin’ and men are always hungry, always ready, ready to come and get it…

Those girls were at my door and when their knock came I made a mistake that day. I answered the call. One of the many things I’ve learned in my many travels through this crazy little thing called life is that women in sales dress provocatively and then ask men a barrage of questions to catch men off guard while we are as enamored as we are distracted. We are powerless to their charms. It is a flaw that all men share and a flaw that I am man enough to admit. The sad part is that I am not even revealing any man secret we all share, for women already know this and exploit it daily and they’re so goddamn good at it.

I saw the girls standing at my door through it’s peek hole and I stepped back, removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes in disbelieve. They knocked again. I was frozen. I quickly looked down at my loose pajama pants to make sure that my manhood hadn’t reared his ugly head or poked his head out as if to say hello. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief to know that turgidity was at a minimum.

“Thank god”, I sighed out loud.

I opened the door to their bright and shining faces. They were radiant angels at the time, but then again I was a sucker for pretty girls. They stared at me deeply, devilishly and flashed me their come to, come hither, bedroom eyes as they pushed their breasts out to me, forward. Pushing the boundaries of their extra small, tight shirts, their tops were about to blow, as I felt, as was I… I’ve always heard that you’re supposed to put your best foot forward; do you think this is what they meant? I think something was lost in the translation, at any rate the foot was on the other breast… but I digress.

“Yes?” I responded timidly, half awake.

They exchanged looks. They knew they had me. I was in trouble.

“Do you consider yourself a nonviolent person?” One of the girls asked.

“What?” I responded as if I could pretend I didn’t understand the question. They reiterated the question.

All I could think of was oh shit… is this a trick question? What is it that they want? If I answer yes, I’m open to them coming in and selling me something or if I say no, they would look at me like I was a freak or something. I cared then, what people thought, but never fear, I quickly outgrew that.

“Yes…” I answered.

They invited themselves in. I was a goner. They sat down on my couch and perused my coffee table. I had some books and movies out along with an old lilac scented candle. There were also some scraps of leftover weed sprinkled on it, stems mostly. There was a pause. The girls smiled. Well, I thought, at least they weren’t peddling religion. Then one of the girls broke the silence.

“You can tell a lot about a person from what is on their coffee table.”

“Oh?” I inquired.

“Yes.” She smiled.

She peered at my, then current, movie collection; which consisted of a few Kubrick films… particularly A Clockwork Orange and Dr. Strangelove. I also had Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Next to those there were some comic books featuring the Punisher and Captain America, I also had the complete works of Poe next to the novel Wicked and some other film course studies books for school.

“You have…eclectic tastes…” she continued.

Maybe the candle won her over, but it was probably the weed. Either way I didn’t care. I was just impressed that she knew the word eclectic…

“So what is it that you want?” I asked firmly.

“Ah good, right down to brass tacks.” She replied.

“How much for the ape…” I replied laughing.

The girls stared at me blankly. I had apparently lost them with my obscure Fear and Loathing reference. Then the girl started her pitch. Her friend didn’t say much. Actually she looked rather bored. I started to wonder how she got her job I thought… I looked at her again… it was her looks… definitely her looks. A condensed version of the girl’s pitch ended up being about how they needed to sell so many magazines in order to go on some trip somewhere, Europe probably… I’m sure at some point in your life you’ve heard or will hear a similar pitch.

“Well I didn’t have any plans on buying anything. I’m not really interested.” I said when she finished.

“That’s ok.” She said.

“It is?” I questioned her easiness.

“Totally, we understand. But please if you could take a look at our magazines and pick out two that you yourself would be interested in…”

I briefly looked over the brochure. At random I picked out Men’s Health and Entertainment Weekly. I looked over and the other girl was already writing down my information and then she made a phone call. As she did so the girl continued on about how they take any major credit card, check or cash. Oh fuck, I thought. These girls aren’t going to take no for an answer. The conversation had already led to payment options and I was trapped. There were two of them and one of me. I looked to my front door. It was closed. Damn. I was trapped and no one could hear me scream. I surrendered. They looked honest, I mean, I could only hope…

I gave up my credit card. I figured well I could always cancel it and dispute the charges later. But it wasn’t over. My card only covered one subscription. I reiterated that I had no plans to buy anything that day… to which they smiled and reassured me that it was ok.

“Where’s the nearest ATM?” She asked.

“Down the street.” I answered, defeated.

“Cool, we’ll all go!” She said brightly.

Goddamn it I thought… I went with it anyway. Whatever it would take to get rid of these vultures, I thought. On a side note, is that why British women are referred to as birds? Buzzards of a feather, flock to sales? Anyway we walked down the sidewalk, the sun was bright and hot. I was still a bit hung over from the night before so I perspired quickly. They didn’t. Hell’s angels must be used to the heat. They were cool as cucumbers. I always hated that expression. But then again, if there was anything I learned from my old tenth grade biology teacher it was this; women don’t sweat, they glow. But, moving on…

We made it to the corner convenient store and I hit up the ATM. I wouldn’t admit just how much this entire venture set me back; I’m rather embarrassed enough… fuck it… all together it was about a hundred and sixty dollars. Don’t judge me, like any of you could have resisted… The three of us walked back to my apartment, I figured that they got what they wanted; they must be done with me. Nope. We went back to my place and had an amazingly fantastically epic pornographic three-way in my queen sized bed…. Ok, not really but I wished that had happened though. In my mind it did. At least if it did it would have been well worth my money spent. Oh well… C’est la vie, as the French say.

However when we did get back to my place the girls brought up the stems they saw earlier on my coffee table and asked if I smoked.

“Yeah, doesn’t everyone?” I said indignantly.

They were carrying but we were baffled at how we could partake. My piece had gone missing since the night before. We attempted to craft a device out of an empty soda bottle, no such luck. Eventually between the three of us we found cigarettes, cut them open and replaced the tobacco, rolled them back up and lit up on the back porch. I led them to the back porch through my bedroom, maybe in hopes of one of them being inspired by the advantageous proposition… another failure.

As we sat on my back porch smoking and talking, suddenly none of the other shit that day mattered. Eventually they left in search of a new mark, I had bet. To peddle their magazines elsewhere and I’m sure they had many more successes that day and I’m sure eventually, conquest after conquest they made their way to Europe or where ever the hell they said they were going, I didn’t care. I just sat on my back porch, cracked open a few beers and enjoyed the rest of the day. I’ve laughed about those events later because I knew at least it would make one hell of a story some day.

A beautiful woman is trouble, a smart and beautiful woman… dangerous. Between their brains and their beauty, a woman could conquer the world. We men are weak; I admit that a pretty smile could make me sign away anything and everything, including a soul. We’re fools, let this be a lesson to ye merry gentlemen… be careful when you answer your doors. The fact is I was ashamed that I had been had. Well, that is, I thought I had. It wasn’t till some months later my phone rang. I came to realize that it wasn’t all a sham, I wrote down the wrong address. My mother called and asked why all these magazines started showing up at her house…

I laughed and breathed a sigh of relief. All I could think was, good thing I didn’t order playboy…